


What You Need

by monsterhugger



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Scars, Self Harm, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, in the worst way, wound care
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-25
Updated: 2020-08-25
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:55:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26102290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monsterhugger/pseuds/monsterhugger
Summary: Elias gives Jon a gift, a secret, and some advice.
Relationships: Elias Bouchard/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 6
Kudos: 58





	What You Need

**Author's Note:**

> Please mind the tags-this fic deals with self harm and contains somewhat graphic depictions of it. Elias basically encourages Jon to cut himself, it’s all very unhealthy and very JonElias.

“Elias, I… I don’t know what to say,” Jon muttered. He looked down at the straight razor. It was a simple design: cold, smooth metal with a small eye engraved near the base of the handle. It had a weight to it that felt almost threatening, and he was able to flip it open and closed quite smoothly.

“A thank you would be nice,” Elias replied. He placed a hand on Jon’s free hand, currently resting next to a pile of papers on Elias’s desk. Jon shivered.

“I mean, it’s lovely,” Jon said, turning the blade over in his hand. “But I mean, I don’t shave.”

“I know,” Elias replied. His gaze was firm and cold but not exactly cruel. Inviting, Jon thought, and the thought of a moth to a flame came with it. Something in him knew Elias wanted to hurt him, and yet something else in him desperately needed to get close.

“It seems a bit ineffective for self defense, doesn’t it?”

“It’s not for that either.”

“Then why…”

Elias sighed, tapping his fingers gently on the desk.

“I think we both know why such an object would appeal to you, Jonathan.”

Jon opened the razor to inspect the blade again, firmly gripping the handle as he did so. The metal was cold in his hand, and it occurred to him that it shouldn’t be so frigid after he’d been holding it for this long.

“Jon, look at me.”

Jon looked up, pointedly meeting Elias’s gaze.

“You haven’t looked me in the eyes since you opened that thing. It’s a bit rude, don’t you think?”

“I-I’m sorry,” Jon said. He still held the blade tightly. Regardless of how effective it would actually be for self defense, keeping it close felt safe.

“All is forgiven,” Elias replied. “They are quite hypnotizing, after all.”

Jon nodded, his gaze drifting back to the blade in his hand.

“I’d like to show you something a bit… personal,” Elias said. Jon kept his eyes on the blade. “I trust you can keep a secret?”

“Of course.”

“Good, good.”

Jon continued to fuss with the blade. He could see Elias undoing the buttons on his sleeves out of the corner of his eye and suddenly felt a creeping dread rising in his chest. The thought of seeing more of Elias felt far too intimate, too close to the flame. Jon was going to get burned, but it was too late to fly away now.

“Jon.”

Jon looked up at Elias, then slowly shifted his gaze down to the desk. Elias had neatly rolled his sleeves up to his elbows, and he had rested his forearms on the desk in front of him, showing them off to Jon. The expanse of revealed skin shouldn’t have been as shocking as it was, but Jon had never seen Elias in a short-sleeved shirt before, he seemed like such a reserved man, and this truly did feel personal for him. Unprofessional, even, too intimate for a workplace setting.

Elias lifted his left hand and slowly, delicately, tracing a finger up and down his right arm. Jon watched the thin gray hairs twitch ever so slightly as his finger moved across them. He looked closely at Elias’s arm, following the movements of his finger…

And then he saw it.

Elias must’ve seen the way Jon shuddered, as Jon heard him make a satisfied sound before resting his left forearm back on the table. Jon stared at his arms a while longer, eyes wide in silent shock. It wasn’t that the sight was too gruesome or horrific for his tastes, he’d seen far worse things and the sort of thing that covered Elias’s arms didn’t truly disturb him on its own. But the fact that it was Elias, the cold, calculating head of the Magnus Institute… Jon never would have thought he would take to something like this.

“Well?” Elias said pointedly. “What do you think?”

“Cuts,” Jon blurted out before he really got a chance to think. “Those are cut scars, aren’t they?”

“Keep your voice down,” Elias hissed. “I’d rather the whole Institute not know about this. Surely you understand.”

Jon nodded. He understood all too well.

“But… why? I mean, no offense, I just never would’ve expected _you…_ ”

“ _That_ is _my_ business,” Elias replied. He began pulling his sleeves back down, and Jon felt a strange pang of disappointment. He wanted to keep looking.

“I… I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry?”

“Well, yes, I’m sorry. Whatever made you do that, I’m sorry it happened.”

“You think that’s what I wanted from you? Pity?”

“I don’t know.”

“I don’t need you to pity me, Archivist.”

“Oh. Alright then.”

Elias did up the buttons on his left sleeve and crossed his arms, but Jon noticed he kept his right sleeve open. It made him hopeful, in a way, like he might get another look. He didn’t know why he wanted one, it was certainly a morbid thing to want to look at, but there was something intriguing about those scars. They made Elias seem vulnerable, _human_ in a way Jon had almost convinced himself he wasn’t. They were a weak point on an all-too-powerful man.

“Your turn, then,” Elias said, any sense of vulnerability utterly gone from his voice. He was practically smiling. Jon’s stomach dropped.

“My turn?”

“You know what I mean.” He tapped Jon’s wrist, and Jon could feel the chill of his hand through his shirt. He flinched away from the touch.

“I’m not sure that I do.”

Elias shook his head, grinning softly.

“My dear Archivist,” he said, cruelty dripping from his voice and filling Jon’s chest with dread. “You have got to stop playing ignorant with me. It’s never worked, and frankly it just makes you seem rude. I _know_ , Jon. I know what you know, and as I’m certain you’ve realized now, I know what you’ve done. This is how our little game works, you _know_ that. No secrets.”

Of course Jon knew. Even without his powers, he wasn’t stupid. He knew what Elias wanted, and if he was being honest with himself, he knew what that razor was for. There was a part of him that wanted to believe if he just refused to think it, refused to _know_ it, it wouldn’t be real. But denial had never worked for him before, and it certainly wouldn’t help him now.

“Go on then,” Elias insisted. “Show me.”

Jon felt a chill down his spine. He didn’t want Elias to see; even if he knew there was something terrifying about him actually seeing. Jon tugged on the end of his sleeve, pulling his clothes over himself like armour. What was Elias going to do to him if he refused? It wasn’t like his job was on the line, quite the opposite in fact. Jon still had the straight razor open and held tightly in his hand. Elias wouldn’t try to hurt him, would he? Not like this.

_”Jon.”_

“I-I don’t want to,” Jon muttered.

Elias slid his fingers under Jon’s sleeve, grabbing onto it. Jon froze. Elias wasn’t holding him particularly tightly, but it still felt like a threat. Jon had a brief idea to cut him, to drag the razor over his hand and make him let go, but something told him that would only make things much, much worse.

“Put the razor down,” Elias ordered.

Jon flipped the blade closed and set it down on the desk. He instantly felt anxious.

“Now then,” Elias said, keeping one hand on Jon’s sleeve and picking up the razor with the other. “You can show me what I need to see, or I can take this back. The choice is yours. I’m not going to force you.”

“Then why are you grabbing my sleeve like that?”

“A little fear can do wonderful things to a fragile mind, don’t you think?”

“I hate you,” Jon muttered.

“Hate is a strong word, Archivist. You know that.”

“It’s plenty strong for you.”

“Is it?” Elias cocked his head to the side. “I certainly think not. I don’t think you hate me, Jon. Distrust? Fear? Blame for everything wrong in your life? Of course. But you simply can’t hate me. Especially not now.”

“Oh, believe me, I hate you very much right now.”

“No, that’s not hate, Jon. That’s fear. You’re scared.”

“I think I know what fear is by now.”

“Oh, certainly. But I know as well as anyone how hard it can be to admit to yourself that you’re afraid.”

“I’m not scared of you.”

“You’re a terrible liar.”

Elias was right. Jon could feel his heart pounding in his chest, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up, his forehead growing damp with sweat. He was _terrified,_ and his lying was about as convincing to himself as it was to Elias.

“So what’s it going to be? Are you going to show me? Or are you going to walk out of this room empty-handed?”

Jon looked at the razor. He needed it. He needed the weight of it in his hands, the chill of metal against his skin, the sharp sting-

“Spare me the fantasies and make a decision. I haven’t got all day.”

Jon swallowed hard. He tried to make himself stand, walk out of the room, leave the razor alone, but he was frozen in his seat. He just couldn’t leave without the razor.

Jon took hold of his sleeve. Elias hummed happily and released his hold, allowing Jon to slowly pull it back. He flinched as the fabric dragged over his newer wounds, stinging slightly. Elias watched him silently, and Jon got the distinct sense he was enjoying this far too much.

Finally Jon finished, both sleeves pulled to his elbows, abused forearms resting on Elias’s desk. He felt naked, the chill of the air hitting him all too hard. Elias looked him over for a moment before bringing a hand to his left arm, tracing a finger over one of the newer wounds. It wasn’t exactly painful, but it made Jon shudder all the same.

“These look quite recent,” Elias said softly. “When was your last time?”

“I’m sure you know the answer to that,” Jon growled. Elias kept a hand on his arm, gently stroking nearly-fresh cuts.

“I’d like you to tell me,” Elias said in that all-too-familiar tone.

“The night before last,” Jon answered without meaning to. “It’s… I don’t know why I did it. Surely I’ve got an excuse, there’s plenty of awful shit going on in my life, and it’s cheaper than cigarettes.”

“Hardly on the same level as a smoke, I would think,” Elias replied. “No one can see the shit you’ve done to your lungs, but this… this you have to hide. This, you have to look at yourself every day and face what you’ve done. You’ve chosen every line, every mark, carved to your precise specifications. There’s something beautiful about it that you don’t exactly get from cigarettes, wouldn’t you say?”

“I wouldn’t call it _beautiful._ ”

“Oh, but I would,” Elias replied, lifting Jon’s hand and allowing his own sleeve to fall back in the process. His scars were neater than Jon’s, perfectly parallel and evenly spaced all the way up from his wrist to his elbow. Controlled, Jon thought. Even in such an act as this Elias still managed to have control. They had healed nicely too, as nicely as such a thing could-thin pale lines against pale skin, barely visible if you weren’t looking for them. Jon looked at his own arm, at the mess of intersecting lines, thick ridges of scar tissue cutting through where his wounds hadn’t healed as well. Indentations dotting his skin amongst the cut scars where the worms had burrowed into him, the dark lines of scabs not yet faded from more recent sessions. Maybe Elias could have called his own injuries beautiful, but Jon was under no delusion that the mess of his arms was anything but ugly.

“I can still see bloodstains on your arms,” Elias said, brushing a hand over Jon’s cuts once more. “You really must clean them properly, you know.”

“I’ve cleaned them,” Jon retorted. He couldn’t see the bloodstains Elias was talking about. He suspected Elias was messing with him.

“Obviously not well enough,” Elias argued. “Come on. I’ll help you.”

He stood up, giving Jon’s hand a gentle tug.

“I don’t need your help,” Jon said, remaining in his chair.

“We can do it in my bathroom. You don’t need to worry about anyone seeing us.”

“That’s not what I’m worried about.”

“What’s wrong, then?”

“I don’t need you to do this for me. I’m fine.”

“Look, Jon,” Elias said, lifting the razor once again. “I suppose you can go if you’d like. But if you’re not willing to take care of yourself, I don’t know if I can entrust you with this.”

“I can take care of myself just fine. I just don’t need you to take care of me.”

“Fine. Then you can leave without _my razor._ ”

Jon stood up, looking Elias in the eyes. He tried to make himself walk out. He tried to make himself turn around, walk towards the door, pull his sleeves back down and forget this ever happened. But once again he found himself unable. He _needed_ that blade.

“Where’s your bathroom?” Jon said softly. He hated to admit defeat, but he needed this.

“Just over here,” Elias said, grinning. “Come along.”

He led Jon through a door in his office to a small but nice-looking bathroom. He motioned for Jon to sit down on the toilet, and Jon did so, staring at the wall and listening to Elias turn on the sink. This was going to be humiliating, Jon knew that, but maybe if he just stared at the wall and tried not to be present for it it wouldn’t be so bad.

Elias kneeled in front of him, damp washcloth in hand. He took Jon’s hand in his own. Jon let his arm go limp, allowing Elias to move him around like a doll. He didn’t make eye contact as Elias pressed the cloth to his arm. It was soft, and the water was cool but not uncomfortably cold. Jon thought he felt the slight sting of soap in his wounds, but they might have just been sore. Elias spent quite a while rubbing the cloth on his arm, and eventually Jon got used to the sensation. It was certainly never comforting, but at least it wasn’t uncomfortable.

“There,” Elias said, running his fingers over Jon’s still-damp arm. “That’s much better.”

Jon nodded.

“You will use that razor if I give it to you, right?”

Jon scoffed.

“I can’t believe you actually want me to cut myself.”

“It’s not that I want you to,” Elias sighed. “But if you _must,_ I’d rather you use my blade. It’s much sharper than whatever old razor blades you’ve been using, and cleaner cuts really do heal better.”

“But you’re not exactly discouraging it, are you?”

“Is that what you’d prefer?” Elias growled, glaring harshly at Jon and gripping him tightly by the wrist. “You want me to tell you how horrible this is, how you’re destroying yourself, turning your beautiful body into something ugly? You want me to tell you about the risk of infection, about how it only takes one bad cut to fill your arm with bacteria that will eat your flesh from the inside out? You want me to tell you how desperately you need therapy, how absolutely sick in the head you are and how you’re only deteriorating as we speak?”

“No,” Jon replied softly. “I suppose not.”

“Very well then,” Elias said, his voice gentle again, releasing his grip on Jon’s arm. “But you _will_ use my blade. I will know if you don’t.”

Jon nodded.

Of course he used the razor that night. How could he not, after all, given how insistent Elias was? And it did feel good, gliding smoothly over his skin, opening up deep bleeding lines from his shoulder down to his wrist. Jon was lightheaded when he was finally done. The mess of bloody tissues that covered his bathroom floor would suggest this was due to blood loss, but it felt like euphoria.

He still remembered to wash his wounds thoroughly afterwards. He wouldn’t want to disappoint Elias.

Elias smiled softly at him when he came into work the next morning. He took Jon’s hands in his own, and Jon didn’t pull away. The cuts itched pleasantly under his shirt sleeves. He’d had to bandage them after finding them still dripping blood when he awoke that morning, and when Elias lifted his hands his sleeves fell back just enough to expose a bit of the bandages around his wrists.

“Taking good care of yourself, I see,” Elias said, looking pointedly at Jon’s bandaged wrist. “Did you enjoy my gift?”

“It was… nice,” Jon replied. “Thank you.”

“You’re quite welcome, Archivist.” Elias gently dropped his hands and walked away, leaving Jon standing there and absently stroking his arm through his shirt.

Jon had been cutting himself for years. He’d started at thirteen, meaning he’d been doing this for more of his life than he hadn’t. There had been periods when he wouldn’t, stopping completely for weeks or even months at a time, but that was more due to disinterest than any actual effort to stay clean. Besides, if he was really clean during those months, that would’ve made starting up again a relapse, a failure, and Jon preferred not to think of it that way. He was simply continuing a routine that had briefly been on hold. This was a part of him, just something he did sometimes, and he saw no need to make a ceremony of it. Just another part of his evening routine: eating dinner, brushing his teeth, reading on the couch, cutting himself, and then crawling into bed.

But something about Elias’s razor demanded a _ritual._

Jon would spend his evening anticipating this ritual, looking forward to it even, his arms practically tingling with excitement. He’d sit on the bathroom floor, sometimes in his underwear, sometimes entirely nude, laid bare and ready to receive his sacrament. He’d light a few candles, somewhat sarcastically at first, but kept doing so after discovering how much he enjoyed the way his blood looked under their light. He kept a pile of tissues next to him, ready to clean up the blood as it dripped from his arms and onto the tile. There was a time when he’d turn his blade over in his hand a few times before he began, but he no longer had the patience for that, eagerly tearing into his skin as soon as he was situated. His rituals were nightly now, meaning more often than not he ended up cutting into already-wounded flesh. He didn’t mind.

The aftermath was much less exciting than the ritual. His arms hurt so much he couldn’t move them properly, and the bandages and long sleeves he was forced to wear constantly were starting to become unpleasantly warm as the weather started heating up. Multiple statement givers had asked if he was okay after watching him fussing with his sleeves throughout their interaction with him.

Jon wasn’t stupid. He knew he couldn’t keep this up. He’d gone through periods of daily cutting before, but it was never like this, never for so long. His arms were more scab than skin at this point, and he’d stopped turning the bathroom light on when he showered to avoid seeing them too clearly. But the thought of getting rid of the razor made his heart race, as did the thought of a therapist knowing what he was doing. All he managed to do was hope it would stop on its own.

He’d almost been relieved when Elias called him into his office. Elias had been the one that caused this, after all. Maybe he knew how to stop it.

When he walked in, Jon was surprised to find Elias sitting on the couch in the corner of his office rather than at his desk. He went to sit down in the chair in front of the desk, but Elias shook his head, patting the spot next to him. Jon cautiously sat down.

“I’ve received a complaint from someone who gave a statement yesterday,” Elias said calmly. “Any idea what that’s about?”

“I don’t know,” Jon replied, his hands shaking.

“They said you wouldn’t stop scratching your arms. Thought they saw bandages too. When they asked if you were alright you snapped at them. Is that true?”

“Yes,” Jon replied. “I-I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright,” Elias assured him. “But you really shouldn’t scratch them, you know. Ripping up your scabs like that is going to give you some awful scars.”

“I’ll try not to,” Jon said, subconsciously rubbing at his aching forearm.

“May I see them?”

Jon’s eyes went wide.

“I don’t think you want to see them.”

“I think I do.” Elias took Jon’s hand, placing his arm over his lap. He began pulling Jon’s sleeve back. Jon shook his head, but he didn’t pull away.

“It’s really bad under there,” he said, but Elias continued to roll his sleeve up. There were a few red spots on the bandages underneath where blood had soaked through from the previous night. This did not deter Elias, who pulled gently at the bandages until he found an end and started unwrapping them.

“Please,” Jon whispered. Elias paused.

“Please what? You don’t want me to see?”

“I-” Jon stopped. Maybe he did want Elias to see. Maybe he didn’t want to be the only one who had to look at this mess.

“That’s what I thought,” Elias said, continuing to unwrap Jon’s arm. He removed the bandages up to Jon’s elbow, staring at the mangled flesh underneath. He ran his hand over it and Jon flinched, expecting pain, but the touch was surprisingly comfortable. Pleasant, even.

“Would you like to take your shirt off?” Elias asked.

“Wh-what?” Jon replied, someone shocked by the question. “Why would I do that?”

“It helps to give them some air,” Elias explained as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “They get quite uncomfortable under all that fabric, especially now that the weather’s heating up. Taking all of this off for a while will do you some good.”

“It’s quite cool in your office, actually.”

“Humour me.”

Jon nodded. Stripping in front of his boss was hardly all that strange, given everything else Elias had done to him. At least that’s what Jon told himself. Elias helped him unwrap his bandages the rest of the way before walking over and tossing them in the bin next to his desk. Jon figured the custodial staff at the Institute had surely thrown away weirder things.

Elias was right, of course. The cool air did feel nice on his wounds. Still, this meant he had to look at them, and it was making him a bit sick to his stomach. Jon squeezed his eyes shut and sat still, trying to lose himself in the gentle comfort of Elias stroking his arm.

“You seem tense, Jon,” Elias whispered. “Are you alright?”

 _Of course not,_ Jon thought, but couldn’t bring himself to say it.

“Talk to me,” Elias said, a twinge of compulsion in his voice. “What’s on your mind?”

“How did you stop?” Jon asked. “When you showed me your arms, you didn’t have any new cuts. How did you stop? Was it the razor? You had to pass it on to someone else to make it stop?”

“I never even used that razor myself,” Elias replied, continuing to stroke Jon’s arm. “That would be quite unsanitary. I got it as a gift quite a few years ago. It was sitting in a drawer for years until I cleaned it up and gave it to you. There’s nothing magical about it.”

“It’s quite sharp for something that’s just been sitting in a drawer for years,” Jon muttered.

“I wouldn’t lie to you, Jon. You would know if I did.”

It was true. Elias was telling the truth.

“Then why am I… why do I need it so badly?” Jon asked. He opened his eyes and looked at Elias, silently pleading with him.

“That’s all you,” Elias said, shaking his head.

“You still haven’t told me how you stopped. I want to stop. I can’t do this anymore.”

Elias sighed, taking Jon’s hand and holding it tightly.

“I didn’t stop, Jon.”

“But your arms-”

Elias moved his free hand to the front of his trousers and began undoing the fly. He looked up and saw the look on Jon’s face and smiled softly.

“Relax. I’ll keep my pants on.”

It was hardly a comforting notion, but Jon wasn’t about to object to any of this. He was already far too intimate with Elias, even without that promise this wouldn’t be much of a step up. Elias slowly maneuvered his trousers off, pulling them down to his knees while remaining seated on the couch. Jon didn’t have to look too hard this time.

Both of Elias’s thighs were covered in thin red lines, as neat and even as the scars on his arms. Jon stared. He didn’t know what to say. He knew Elias didn’t want him to be sorry, but he felt like he had to say _something._

“So you’re suggesting I just cut my thighs instead?” he asked. It wasn’t a great response, but it was something.

“If you’d like,” Elias replied. “It is easier to hide.”

“I don’t want ‘easier to hide’. I want it to stop.”

“What makes you think I can help you?”

“I don’t know. I just figured you’d know how. You do know everything, don’t you?”

“I can if I want to. But I don’t want to stop, Jon. And I don’t think you do either.”

“But I _do._ Please.”

“Then figure it out. You’re just as capable of knowing that as I am, Archivist.”

Jon thought about it. He had to get rid of the razor. He had to find a therapist. He had to actually get clean, for once in his life.

He didn’t want to.

“Of course, you don’t really have to stop,” Elias said. He guided Jon’s hand to his thigh and placed it over the cuts. “It’s okay.”

“No it isn’t,” Jon insisted. “You _know_ it isn’t.”

“Yes it is,” Elias replied. “It’s keeping you grounded, isn’t it. Having this ritual, being able to take comfort in something uniquely yours. It’s helping you.”

“But-”

“No buts. It’s okay, Jon. You’re okay.”

Jon ran his hand over Elias’s cuts. The texture was calming in a way.

He wanted to be okay. He desperately wanted to be okay.

“Okay,” he whispered. “I’m okay.”

“Good,” Elias said, squeezing his hand. “Good talk.”


End file.
